Second to Nun
by L J Groundwater
Summary: A complicated case comes between Alan Shore and Denny Crane. But when things go terribly wrong, will they have the chance to reconcile? Never done this show before... please have a look and give feedback... thanks.
1. Chapter 1

I own nothing but my imagination. These delightful characters were created by David E Kelly and brought to life by extremely talented people.

The timeline is out in terms of Denny's request for Alan to shoot him, but... blame the library, I had to watch all these eps out of order. And I wanted Tara in the picture, because I love the dynamic between her and Alan.

* BL * BL * BL *

"I need a lawyer. Can someone help me? I need a lawyer!"

Alan Shore came up to the man calling out in the main corridor of Crane, Poole & Schmidt law firm. "Yes, sir—what can we do for you?" he asked, intrigued and just the tiniest bit repulsed by the visitor's boldness. As he always did, Alan had already given the short, heavy man the once-over, and noted with no particular feeling that he used that distinctive Massachusetts accent—the one that made Alan a _loy-a_, instead of a lawyer.

"I need a lawyer," the man repeated. "Are you a lawyer?"

Alan put on his "mildly tolerant and amused" smile. "I am."

"I need a lawyer."

"So you say."

"No kidding, Mister, I need someone to help me."

"Certainly, sir. What's happened?"

"My sister killed my mother."

Alan's demeanor changed immediately and he forgot all about the man's presentation. "I'm Alan Shore. Let's have this talk in my office."

*BL*BL*BL*

Alan settled in behind his desk, facing the fifty-something man he had firmly planted in the chair on the opposite side of it. "Now, Mister..."

"George."

"Mr. George, why haven't you—"

"McLaughlin."

"I beg your pardon?" Alan asked.

"McLaughlin. My name is George McLaughlin. I—I like to be called George."

"Ah. Very well. Then George it is. George, why don't you tell me what's going on."

"Our ma was sick, you know? She was really sick. And she was old, losing her mind a bit, that kind of thing." Alan watched as the man twisted his hands unhappily. "She always said that when her time came, she wanted to go peaceful-like, you know? Before she went totally ga-ga. My sister—she knew this. But she didn't listen. She did it when _she_ wanted to, not Ma. She killed her, Mr. Shore. She killed her!"

Alan leaned forward in his chair. "Calm down, now, George. I need to make sure I understand this. Did your mother ask for someone to end her life?"

"No, Mr. Shore—well, she always said she didn't want to be a burden on anyone. But how could she be a burden? She was our ma, you know? But Alice, she didn't listen! And one day, she just decided it was time, and she—she—"

Softly, Alan prompted, "She what?"

The visitor seemed to reorganize his thoughts. "Ma had to go to the hospital. She fell over and hurt herself... couldn't remember where she was... didn't even recognize me."

Alan nodded understanding.

"She was uncomfortable. She didn't like hospitals. And she was scared. She didn't like being by herself. So one of us would stay with her. Sometimes she was scared of us," McLaughlin added, with more than a tinge of sadness. "She didn't always know us, you know?"

"George," Alan asked gently, "did your mother have Alzheimer's?"

"Yeah," the man admitted. "But not bad enough that she didn't know us _sometimes_. Anyway, Ma's crying all the time. She's not really getting better. She's not coping. The doctor says she's going to need help all the time, that she's in pain. Alice tells the hospital that Ma can't stand it any more, that she needs to have her pain 'managed'. And then... well... Ma goes to sleep..." George's face grew even more distressed, and he slumped in his chair. "And she never wakes up."

Alan's head spun. For a moment, his mind flew to his best friend, a name partner at Crane, Poole & Schmidt, Denny Crane. He felt a pang of... something... when he considered that one day he was likely going to be asked to make this same decision about Denny. But he was sure he wasn't getting the whole story here; something was missing. He sat back in his chair. "George, where was your mother living before she got admitted to the hospital for her fall?"

"She was in a nursing home. They had to watch her."

"And did your sister have Power of Attorney for your mother regarding health matters?"

"Yeah. Alice is a nurse. Ma thought she'd know best."

"But you _didn't_."

"I did until _now_."

"I see. And had your mother talked about wanting to... go... when things became difficult for those around her? For you, and for your sister?"

"She never meant it, Mr. Shore. She always said she didn't want to be a burden, that she didn't want to live like one of those people you read about—you know, the ones that are strangers to their own families. But she wanted to be alive, Mr. Shore. She didn't want to die!"

"George, I—"

"She always said she wanted to be around to see Joanna get married. That's what she always said: 'George, I want to see Joanna get married. _Then_ when it happens, it happens.' And that's how I knew she wanted to stay alive as long as possible."

"Joanna is...?"

"My daughter, Mr. Shore. The only girl grandchild. She wanted Joanna to wear her special pearls and things. You know, the stuff she wore to marry my dad."

"And did Joanna get married?"

"No—and she's not going to. That's what I'm trying to say, Mr. Shore. Ma always said she didn't want to go until Joanna got married. But she knew that was never going to happen—she was saying that she didn't want to go at all. And Alice killed her!"

"Did your mother leave a will, George?"

"Yes." Alan waited, prompted the man with the slightest nod. "If Joanna got married before Ma died, all the money went to her and her husband."

"And if not?"

"To me and Alice."

"George, do you think Alice let your mother die when she did for money?"

"No. She knew Joanna wasn't going to get married. It was just... she didn't want to put up with her any more."

"George, why didn't you go to the police?"

McLaughlin shifted uncomfortably. "It's my sister, Mr. Shore."

As kindly as he could manage, Alan said, "You need to realize... George... that if we take this to court and get a wrongful death judgment, your sister could be brought up on murder charges."

"I'd have to prosecute, wouldn't I? For Alice to get in trouble, I mean?"

"The State can bring charges against Alice on its own, George. They can subpoena you to testify against her. You don't have to press charges."

George hesitated. Then he said, "She knew Joanna wasn't gonna get married. She _knew_."

Alan tried to hide a heavy sigh.

"So are you gonna take my case?"

Alan straightened. "Let me talk to the doctors, George. I'd like to meet with Joanna, too. Can you arrange a meeting?"

"She'll tell you the same as me, Mr. Shore. No marriage. Never."

Alan smiled tolerantly. "I have no doubt. I'd like to meet her all the same. Can you manage that for me?"

"I'll try."

"Good."

* BL * BL * BL *

Denny Crane frowned as he listened to Alan explain George McLaughlin's visit to his office earlier in the day. "So what does this guy want?" Denny asked. "Money?"

"He thinks his sister murdered their mother, Denny. Money wasn't important."

"Not that he's saying _yet_."

"He says his mother wanted to stay alive to see his daughter marry. But he swears his mother was quite clear-minded about the idea that it was never going to happen. If he's right, the woman may have been murdered."

"But _why_?"

"I don't know yet. Maybe she didn't want to wait until the mother passed away of her own accord."

"Is she pretty?"

"Who?"

"The granddaughter. Is she pretty?"

"I don't know; I haven't met her yet. I've asked George to get her in here."

"I want to see her," Denny told his friend. "But only if she's pretty. If she's not pretty, the sister is guilty."

A smile lifted the corners of Alan's mouth. "Denny, even _you_ surely can't be that shallow—"

"Americans like _pretty_, Alan. We want to look at _attractive_ things, and attractive _people_. We shun anything... _repulsive_ to the eye. It's the American way."

"Even so, I think George declaring that Joanna will _never_ marry is a bit extreme, and I want to meet her before I make any decisions here on how to proceed."

"You sound taken in," Denny observed.

"There's something... genuine about him, Denny," Alan admitted. "It seems like he _adored_ his mother... something I just can't relate to... and while he doesn't have a problem carrying out his mother's wishes, he swears these aren't what her wishes _were_. I believe him."

"Let's just see if she's a pretty girl, or a dog."

* BL * BL * BL *

Later that day, Alan pulled up a young associate in the library. "Tara, the Curtis deposition has been moved up to tomorrow. I'll need your research about the college's history curriculum today."

"Certainly, Alan," replied Tara. Tara Wilson, her dark eyes looking straight into Alan's blue ones, smiled in a way that always made him shudder. "I didn't know you were interested in teaching."

Alan moved in very close to her. "Only for the discipline," he whispered. "I was always a naughty boy."

"Were you?" she asked knowingly.

"A very, very naughty boy."

"I suppose you liked corporal punishment," she breathed.

"Not so much in elementary school," he said, his voice growing rough. "But by the time I left high school, I was quite a fan."

Tara smiled, her lips parted just slightly as she moved in just inches from Alan's face. She held his look for a moment, then slipped smoothly away from him to the next shelf of law books.

Alan followed her, his body starting to feel that familiar ache he always felt when she was around. "Meet me in study hall after the bell rings? I'm a sucker for detention," he proposed.

Tara just continued poring through the books. "Why, Alan, I believe you're making a pass at me," she said, not at all surprised by his actions. Again, their eyes met. "An A for effort. But against the rules. I'll have to send you to the head master's office."

"Make it the head mistress and I'll be there before you can get out of your cute little school uniform."

Tara cast him a sideways smile and turned back to her work. "We both know you're all talk, Alan. But it was nice playing school with you." She closed the book she had been perusing and pulled it close to her body. "I have what you need on my desk." She brushed past him, making him feel as though he'd had the wind knocked out of him. "I'll bring it by when everyone else is gone... and you can give me..." Alan stared at her intently, something that seemed to unnerve most women... but not Tara. "... my report card."

She headed out of the library as Alan opened his mouth to reply. The appearance of senior partner Paul Lewiston stopped him from following her. "Alan, there's a woman waiting for you in your office. She says you asked to see her."

A smile spread over Alan's face. "And she so readily complied. Would that all women were so willing."

Paul shook his head. "You may find her less willing than most," he said. Alan raised an eyebrow. "Don't keep her waiting."

* BL * BL * BL *

Alan Shore entered his office and immediately frowned. He cleared his throat and came around to greet his visitor. "Good afternoon," he said to the lady. He smiled pleasantly, even as his eyes took in her habit, her veil, her troubled eyes. "I'm Alan Shore. I understand you're under the impression that I need to see you. And you are...?"

"Sister Joseph."

A small breath of delight escaped from Alan's lips. "Joseph."

"Yes, Mr. Shore. You were asking to talk to me."

"Was I?" he asked, still charmed.

He smiled. "Mr. Shore, I don't think you understand."

"I'm sure I don't."

"I'm George McLaughlin's daughter. I'm Joanna."

Alan's delight was abruptly replaced with disbelief. From behind him, he heard a sound at the door: "Woof."

Sister Joseph's expression turned to one of shock, and Alan turned his head quickly to see the source of the interruption.

His best friend stared back at him, then shrugged. "Denny Crane."


	2. Chapter 2

David E. Kelley owns everything. I just have thoughts.

Only the storyline and text are mine. Someone give me feedback, please!

* BL * BL * BL *

"You can't do it, Alan," Denny announced, when Alan came to his office at the end of the day.

Alan laughed. "What do you mean, I can't do it? You think you can just, unilaterally, choose my cases for me?"

Denny took the stopper off the scotch decanter, preparing to pour their usual nightcap. "It's a scam. This man is trying to get around his mother's right to die."

Alan was incredulous. "He's doing no such thing."

"It's all about money, Alan. He's telling you their mother didn't want to be a burden, and that she was having trouble, and that the sister was supposed to pick the time. Well, she picked it. He's using his daughter's ugliness as an excuse to keep the mother alive as long as _he_ wanted to. It's _wrong_, Alan, and I expect you to know that."

"Denny, she's a _nun_! Who, by the way, you _woofed_ at. I'm not sure that was the most… _professional_ thing you've ever done."

Denny shook his head. "Follow the money, Alan."

"I don't _have_ to follow it. George said his mother's will left everything to Joanna if she got married. Otherwise, George and his sister got it all. Joanna is a member of a _Catholic religious order_, Denny; marriage wasn't going to happen. If it was about the money, George wouldn't be complaining; he'd just be _rich_. If not now, then later."

"Then he wanted his mother to stay alive," Denny accused angrily, the scotch forgotten. "Even when _she_ said she wanted to go."

"Denny, this isn't about a patient's right to die."

"It's _exactly_ that, Alan! The old woman said she wanted to go, the sister let her go." He paused for a second, then announced again, "You can't take this case."

Alan smiled at his friend's passion, sure he could make him come around to his way of thinking. "I can take any case I see fit, Denny."

"You and I have an agreement, Alan. What you said you'd do for me when my time comes—"

"—has nothing whatsoever to do with this case."

"But it _does_, Alan. And as a name partner, I'm ordering you not to take it!"

Alan collected himself, sure he was getting worked up because his friend was, and tried to reason with him. "Denny, my personal feelings for you notwithstanding, this is a genuine, and intriguing, set of circumstances. Determining when it's _not_ acceptable to help end someone's life can make it easier for the courts to determine when it _is_. I've accepted the case."

But Denny's stance didn't change. His expression grew even darker, and powerful. "Well, _un_-accept it."

Alan knew he was in dangerous territory, but that wasn't a place he was generally frightened of going. The case was important, damn it, regardless of Denny's subjective viewpoint. It would help _him_ one day, perhaps, when his own time came. "No," he answered calmly.

Alan knew his defiance would make Denny angry, but he was still unprepared for what came next: "Get out of my office."

Alan swallowed, realizing that this was pushing all his friend's buttons. Time to calm him down. "Denny—"

"I said _get out_, Alan. Now."

Alan felt himself burning inside with disbelief and hurt. He waited a few short seconds, watching Denny carefully to see if he would control his anger. But when Denny continued to stare him down, he swallowed wordlessly, nodded shortly, and walked away.

* BL * BL * BL*

Tara walked breezily to Alan's office with a file, not expecting him to be there. She stopped, frowning, when she got to the doorway, and watched in silence for a moment as Alan remained motionless at his desk, almost expressionless, staring up at the opposite, shadowed wall, seeing nothing, or perhaps everything.

"No balcony tonight," she observed finally, taking a tentative step inside.

Alan's head dropped and he blinked, then turned his eyes expectantly on her. "I'm sorry, Tara. What did you say?"

"I expected you to be on the balcony with Denny tonight like usual, not contemplating the universe in your office."

"Ah. Well. Not tonight," Alan said, his tone inviting nothing. His eyes moved to his clean desk top.

"Are you all right?" Tara asked.

"Of course I am, Tara," he answered, the little laugh he usually put into his voice still there, but this time not convincing.

Tara moved to the desk. "What's going on, Alan?" she asked.

Alan quite visibly put on his false, unconvincing, smile. "Nothing, Tara. Everything is fine."

Tara digested this, then decided to let it go, for now. "I have your file."

"Ah! Thank you." Alan held out his hand for it. Tara gave it to him, then watched as he put it on the desk and ignored it, his mind clearly elsewhere.

"Was that a _nun_ I saw in here earlier, Alan?" she asked, trying again.

"Yes. Sister Joseph, of the Sisters of the Sacred Heart," Alan replied.

Seeing her chance to distract Alan from whatever was troubling him, Tara said, "I didn't realize you were quite so serious when you talked about discipline." She smiled. "The nuns were always strict disciplinarians, were they not?"

Alan smiled mildly. "They were, indeed," he answered. "But this nun is simply a very strong piece of evidence in a case I've just taken on."

"So you like your nuns _strong_," Tara prompted.

Again, Alan merely smiled. "I won't need you tonight, Tara; you can head home. Thank you for the file."

Tara furrowed her brow at the rebuff and opened her mouth to reply, but she decided against it and nodded. "Very well, Alan. Good night."

"Good night, Tara." Tara considered a moment, then nodded again and turned to go. "Tara," Alan called as she reached the door, "thank you."

She turned and smiled at him, though still concerned. "You're welcome."

* BL * BL * BL *

Alan stopped at the doorway to Denny's office on his way to the kitchen. He thought he'd attempt to reason with him again this morning. The attempts he had made yesterday had all been rebuffed quite soundly—met by a wall of silence that was absolutely deafening. Now, Denny was sitting at his desk, doing nothing in particular. Alan watched him for a moment, hoping he'd notice Alan standing there and say something. When he didn't, Alan softly cleared his throat. Still nothing. The tiniest, most naive part of Alan wondered if Denny's hearing was beginning to go. Finally, he offered, "Good morning, Denny."

No immediate reaction from the senior partner. Then, slowly, his eyes moved to Alan's, and he held him fast, his expression stern and unwelcoming. He said nothing, and Alan found himself strangely unable to speak. After a moment, Denny turned back to something on his desk, silently dismissing him. Alan felt a now-familiar burning inside, and he swallowed, hard, then moved on.

* BL * BL * BL *

"Good morning, Alan," came Shirley Schmidt's greeting from the fridge, where she was pulling out some milk for morning coffee.

Alan, lost in his own thoughts, heard nothing as he moved about the room aimlessly.

"Alan! Good morning," repeated Shirley.

"Oh—good morning," Alan mumbled in reply. He looked around at the counters.

"Have you lost something?"

He shook himself and seemed to just notice the senior partner in the room for the first time. "I beg your pardon?"

"_Have you lost something,_" Shirley repeated. "Alan, are you all right?"

Alan continued scanning the kitchen. "I'm fine."

"Then what are you doing?"

"I'm just... I'm... never mind, Shirley. Apologies for distracting you from your morning java."

Alan moved out of the kitchen and back toward his office. Shirley followed. "Alan, what's going on?"

"Nothing is going on, Shirley," he replied, rounding the corner. She moved a little faster to keep up. "I'm fine. Everything is just fine."

"Yes, we've established that you're fine," she said. Alan made it to his office and headed in. "Why don't I believe you?"

But Alan, having made it inside, turned and began to close the door before she could get in with him. "I have some final preparation to do before court this morning, Shirley. I'll see you later."

And Shirley, although knowing she could still force her way in, left him alone and walked away. For his part, Alan sank into his desk chair, and thought.

* BL * BL * BL *

"Denny, what's wrong with Alan?"

Denny Crane looked up at Shirley, irked at being interrupted in the middle of his... his... well, irked at being disturbed to discuss someone with whom he was currently upset. "What?"

"What's wrong with Alan?" she repeated. "He's very distracted this morning. And since he's usually only distracted by you or by sex, I thought I'd start with you."

"I don't know what his problem is. I haven't spoken with him today."

"Were you with him last night?"

"No. Listen, Shirley, I've been thinking. I think, maybe, Alan's got too much free reign around here."

"Free reign?" Shirley repeated.

"He comes and goes as he pleases, takes what cases he wants to... I'm not so sure it's best for the firm."

Shirley smiled. "Denny, Alan's gut instincts are almost always right on target, his billables have been a significant boost to Crane, Poole & Schmidt, and in the last twelve months alone he's out-performed all our Boston associates combined." Shirley smiled. "Don't worry, Denny. You made the right decision offering Alan a job here, despite what Paul thinks of him, and even though he's a little unorthodox... well, I haven't met many people in this place who aren't."

Denny harrumphed. "He's not partner material."

"He knows that's a difficult hurdle. Let's burn that bridge when we come to it next year. For right now, we'll just be happy to have him."

"Some of us will be," Denny mumbled, as Shirley left his office.

* BL * BL * BL *

"Are you ready to go, Alan?"

Shirley came to Alan's office, armed and ready to head to court for their deposition. She was pulled up short when she realized that her co-counsel was staring at the opposite wall.

Alan didn't answer right away. He was studying something invisible to Shirley, as though seeing his past in whatever speck it was he was so focused on. When he finally did speak, his voice was quiet. "Did you know... Shirley... that when I first met Denny, I said he was a whack job?"

Shirley came into the room, sat at his desk, and smiled softly, amused. "Quite an astute judge of character," she said.

"Now... he's my best friend."

Shirley said nothing.

Another long silence. Then, finally: "Denny is... angry... that I've taken the McLaughlin case."

Shirley, perplexed, came and sat across Alan at the desk. "Angry? Why?"

"Because he wants me to shoot him when his Mad Cow takes over."

"_Shoot him?_ Alan, that's—"

"Oh, I don't know that I could actually _shoot_ him... really... but I promised him that he would leave this world with dignity." He looked back at his desk. "I think, perhaps, Denny feels that representing George McLaughlin means I don't really believe he should be able to make that final choice. That I wouldn't 'shoot him' before his dignity is gone."

"That's quite a leap to make," Shirley offered. "If I understand it properly, this case isn't simply about the right to die. There's much more to it than that."

But Alan continued as though he hadn't heard her. "I met Denny when I asked him to represent me in my case against Young, Frutt and Berluti when they fired me, but I didn't want him to talk. I just wanted him to sit at the table with me because he went hunting with the judge. He told me I _wanted_ him to talk. That when he spoke, E.F. Hutton listened. But that his presence... was... so _powerful_, that sometimes he was even stronger when he didn't say a word."

Shirley nodded.

"I didn't want Denny to talk, Shirley," Alan said again. "But... now... to contemplate him walking away from our friendship because he thinks I've... dishonored his... wishes and beliefs somehow is just..." He let the rest of the thought go unspoken as his mind drifted to an unwanted future. Then he abruptly replaced the mask he had taken off just long enough for Shirley to see inside him. It wasn't something he liked to do, normally. "Well... I want him to talk." Alan's blank expression grew troubled. "I want him to talk."

"He'll get over it, Alan," Shirley said, trying to sound confident. "You're a good lawyer, taking on a complex case. It has nothing to do with your friendship with Denny."

"Not to you, or to me, Shirley. But to Denny Crane, the two are inextricably linked."

Shirley paused for a moment, contemplating the rarely-seen melancholy in her associate. Unlike past tiffs—what she occasionally thought of as "lovers' quarrels"—this one truly seemed to rattle Alan. Denny must have come on incredibly strong; it was something he was capable of, but rarely did with people he cared about. But when it happened, it could be devastating. "Denny loves you, Alan," she said finally, gently. "Whatever he's feeling now... well, he'll come to understand."

"I hope so, Shirley," Alan answered softly. Then, looking her straight in the eye: "I deeply, deeply hope so."

Shirley smile reassuringly. "I'm sure he will. Now, let's get to court."

* BL * BL * BL *

Shirley wasn't exactly sure what happened. Not then, not even later. It came at her all at once as she exited the courthouse. She was a few steps ahead of Alan, who was trailing behind, talking to a lawyer from another firm about a nuisance, court-appointed case he wanted to be done with, when an enormous screeching of tires met her ears. She looked up, searching for the source of the sound, when she heard the unmistakable crack of a gunshot—something she had gotten used to from her years spent in the company of Denny Crane. Then there was shouting from the stairs of the courthouse as the noise continued. Police yelling at people to get down. People screaming to get out of the way or back in to the safety of the building. And as the echoing blasts continued, someone suddenly pulled her from behind, shoved her unceremoniously to the stone steps, and then blanketed her with their own body. The squealing of tires continued for a few more seconds. Two more shots rang through the air. And then it was over, leaving just the whimpering cries of those around her trying to come to grips with what had just happened. Calls for police hurry to the scene, scrambling from inside the courthouse, and requests for ambulances and paramedics.

Shirley struggled to sit up, but soon realized that whoever had pulled her down was still on top of her. "I'm all right," she managed, trying to get upright. "You can—get—off—"

She continued to push for a moment, then realized it was Alan whose weight was upon her. "Alan," she started, trying to take aim for his shoulders, "I appreciate the way you feel about me but—"

It was when Alan fell back against her shove that she noticed his face. His skin was pale, his eyes vague, his jaw slack. All at once she comprehended what had transpired, and a frantic look further down his body and at her own hands confirmed it. There was blood, lots of it. And it was Alan's. "Alan!" Shirley exclaimed, straining to get out from under him. "Help! We need some help here!" she called out.

She turned Alan onto his back as people came running. His eyes, still open, were wandering, as though looking for something to focus on. His mouth was moving, but she could hear no words. "Alan," she repeated, trying hard to stay calm for him, though she saw the bright red stain on his shirt getting bigger, and wetter. She grabbed hold of his hand. It was cold. "Alan, look at me. Look at me!" When he didn't move distinctly, she turned his head so he could see her. His eyes stayed on her face only for a second before drifting away. "We're getting help, Alan. It'll be fine. You just hold on for me. Do you hear me?"

Alan's eyes came back to Shirley, and her heart clenched when she saw the fear and confusion in them. "Shirley—" he gasped, his voice a mere whisper. Again his mouth moved, but she could not hear what he was trying to say. He seemed to understand this and tried again, but a wave of pain must have made its way through the shock he was undoubtedly in and he squeezed his eyes shut.

Uniformed people appeared by Shirley's side. "Alan, there are people here to help you now. The ambulance will be here soon. I'm not leaving you. Can you hear me? I'm right here, Alan."

Shirley wasn't sure if the squeeze of her hand that she felt was real, or a wish she so desperately wanted to believe. But as she surrendered Alan's care to the people trying to ease her out of the way and make sure none of the blood on her clothes was hers, she started to pray.


	3. Chapter 3

David E. Kelley owns everyone you recognize. The OCs, storyline and text are mine… and that's it!

* BL * BL * BL *

Brad Chase appeared in the doorway to the conference room. "There's been a shooting at the District Court."

Paul, Tara and attorney Denise Bauer looked up in alarm. "What did you say?" Paul asked.

Brad took a deep breath. "Channel Five is running a live story about a shooting outside the courthouse this morning."

"Alan and Shirley were there this morning on the Curtis case," Tara said, turning cold inside.

Paul stood up. "We need to stay calm; we don't know that anything has happened to them. Denise, try calling Shirley on her cell phone; Tara, you try Alan. Brad, where's Denny?"

Brad shook his head as the ladies whipped out their phones. "I think he's still at a meeting with Alderton Pharmaceutical."

"Fine, let's not disturb him until we know there's a problem."

"Shirley's phone is going to voice mail," Denise announced after a minute, clearly worried.

"That's nothing to worry about," Paul told her. "If she's in court, she won't have it on."

"Alan's is ringing out, too," Tara added.

"And he'd be with her. Brad, who do we know at the courthouse?"

"I have a friend who's a secretary in Judge Howe's office."

"Call her. See if she knows anything. I'm sure they're fine, but we'd better put this to rest right now. Brad, let's see what the television is showing us."

* BL * BL * BL *

Alan Shore was aware of being annoyed, despite the surreal situation he was in. First of all, he had been quite willing to retreat into the painless black void closing in on him, when he had been interrupted by do-gooders trying to save his life. And second, it was during the transfer from the stairs to the stretcher that someone had asked him his name. The fire the move had ignited in his chest was so intense that he had only gotten out part of the answer when he had actually cried out in pain, so this man tending to him was quite irritatingly, and incessantly, calling him _Al_.

He wished they hadn't moved him. He wanted to get back to that void in the worst way. This was all too much. But someone was determined not to let him go.

"Al, we need you to stay with us, Al. Okay?"

_Alan,_ he thought. He wasn't strong enough to say it. His mind wasn't even in the ambulance, not really. It was wandering, struggling to take him away from here. The light shining in his eyes was bright and he wanted to get away from it, but he was confused as well as tired and in pain, and, if he'd had a chance to think about it, he would have realized he was also scared.

"Al?"

He was aware of things moving very quickly, but unsure of the cause of the urgency. He felt someone moving his arm, he was sure he heard his hundred-and-fifty-dollar shirt being ripped away from his body. "Al, we're going to apply this pressure bandage to your chest. It's going to hurt, but we have to do this to help you. We're going to give you something for your pain in a minute. Are you allergic to anything? Al?"

The answer was _no_, but Alan could do little more than move his mouth in the hope that words would come out. Sudden pressure on his chest made him cry out in pain and frustration and anger. For a brief second the face of Shirley Schmidt flashed in his mind. She'd been on those steps when the shooting started but didn't seem to understand what was going on. He'd tried to get her out of harm's way. Had he succeeded? "Shirley!" he burst, terrified that he hadn't. His mind not comprehending what had happened to himself, he tried to sit up. An avalanche of pain pushed him back down, and guiding hands kept him in place. He gritted his teeth and hissed as tears sprang to his eyes.

"Shirley is _fine_, Al. She's following the ambulance to the hospital. You're the one we need to look after. We're going giving you something for the pain now. You're going to feel a little prick in your arm, and in a minute or two you'll start to feel better, okay?"

The noise of the traffic, the Velcro of a blood pressure cuff being opened, the radio static, the voices, they all swirled around him. He moaned, lost in this confusion. Why was he here? Alan's eyes were scanning his surroundings, seeing everything but taking in nothing. Everything seemed to speed up, and then slow down, and before the drug was even administered, Alan gratefully passed out.

* BL * BL * BL *

Shirley burst through the door to the emergency room, trying to see everything at once. She quickly approached a woman in scrubs who was writing on a clipboard. "Excuse me," she said. "I'm looking for Alan Shore. He was brought in here with a gunshot wound a few minutes ago."

The woman looked at Shirley's clothes. "Ma'am, are you all right?"

Shirley ignored the shocked look. "I am. But I need to find Alan Shore. Where is he?"

"Are you related?"

"He works for me." The woman hesitated. Shirley grabbed at her own blouse. "This is _his_ blood. We were at the courthouse. We're both lawyers. I need to find him. Please help me."

A final second of doubt, then the look in Shirley's eyes must have convinced her. The woman patted Shirley's arm, said, "Wait here; let me find out," and then disappeared. Shirley stood alone, waiting, unsure what to do, and not thinking about anything but the look on Alan's face, and hearing the way he tried to call her name. She ran her hand across her mouth. He had pulled her down onto the steps. And he if hadn't, he might have been the one standing here, with her blood on _his_ shirt. She shivered.

"You're looking for Alan Shore?"

Shirley whirled around at the voice, seeing the woman she had spoken to a minute ago returning with a man in a white lab coat. The doctor, she presumed. "Yes."

"Mr. Shore is in X-ray. We're preparing the operating theatre for him now. Are you in contact with his family? They should be told."

"Uh—" Shirley was embarrassed to realize that she knew almost nothing of any of Alan's personal life. "He doesn't—uh—he doesn't have family here. I'm his boss. Can I see him?"

"He'll be out of X-ray in a minute." The doctor paused for a moment and looked her over. "Are you okay? You look a bit shaken up."

"I'm fine."

"You've had quite a shock yourself. Let one of the nurses at least have a look at you, okay?"

"Really, I'm fine. I just... really need to see Alan."

"Okay. Wait over there—I'll have someone come get you when he's out."

* BL * BL * BL *

"You have about one minute," the orderly warned Shirley. He hooked Alan's chart to the foot of the bed and cleared out.

Shirley came straight to Alan's side and grasped his hand, studiously ignoring the beeping monitors, the leads hooked up to him, the oxygen tube crossing under his nose. "Hey," she said softly. Alan's eyes were open just enough for her to see his fear. His breathing was quick and shallow, though she couldn't tell if that was from pain or anxiety. "Alan, I'm here," she told him. "You're not alone."

Continued silence, then Alan's eyes fluttered slightly, as though he was just waking up. Then for just an instant he seemed to come into awareness. His voice, though without strength or power, seemed urgent. "Shirley—you—"

"I'm fine, Alan." She smiled, tried not to see the oozing red bandage on his chest. "You saw to that."

The relief in his eyes brought Shirley close to tears. She tried to smile encouragingly.

"Your... shirt..." Alan gasped.

Shirley glanced down at her bloody blouse and jacket, then averted her eyes quickly. "All yours, I'm afraid."

"...sorry..."

Alan's eyes closed. Shirley watched him taking panting, difficult breaths for a moment. Then she said, "Alan, when I first met you in the men's room at the office, I said you were a self-loathing narcissist with a small penis. I was wrong."

She waited for his comeback. She was sure—she was _hoping_, somehow—that he would retort, "So you admit I have a _big_ penis?" But he said nothing. "Alan, what you did today..."

She didn't know how to finish, and she suspected he could no longer hear her anyway. She leaned forward, and kissed him ever-so-gently on one cheek.

It was as she was straightening up that people started moving into the room. "Okay, it's time to go, Mr. Shore," said the orderly who had been here just a moment before.

Shirley released Alan's hand and backed up as medical personnel rushed around, pulling the railings up on the sides of the bed, unhooking the IV drip of whatever-that-was off the pole and laying it gently on the bed near Alan's hip. "Alan, we're going to get that bullet out and stitch you up just fine," said a nurse who seemed to take no notice of the fact that her patient wasn't responding to her.

Another nurse came up beside Shirley, who could only watch what was happening. "Ms. Schmidt, there's a police officer outside who wants you to give a statement. And we have to take Mr. Shore to surgery _right now_."

"Is he going to be—is he—"

"We have to take care of this _now_, Ms. Schmidt. Now, the police are waiting, and you're in the way. Please move out of the doorway."

And suddenly there was Alan's bed, moving toward her, past her, and down the hallway through a set of swinging doors through which she knew she couldn't follow. "They'll be at least a couple of hours," said the orderly who had been left behind to reorganize the room, not unkindly. "Go talk to the police, and then have something to eat and try to relax. He's in good hands."

* BL * BL * BL *

"Anything from your friend at the courthouse?" Paul asked Brad anxiously, catching him in the hall.

"No, afraid not."

Tara appeared beside them. "Still no answer on their cell phones," she reported. "We should have heard something by now."

"I'm going to head down to the courthouse now and see if I can find them," Paul announced.

"What? I thought you said they were fine and they wouldn't have their phones on!" Tara said.

"I _still_ believe that. But I'm not going to get any work done until I'm looking at them myself. The news said three people were shot, and I want to make sure that none of them are Shirley and Alan."

He broke away from them to head to the elevator when Shirley Schmidt appeared from around the corner, walking fast.

"Oh-my-God, Shirley!" Brad exclaimed. The trio took in her expression, her walk, her clothes. They gathered around her as she kept walking.

"Shirley, are you all right?" Paul asked, shocked by her appearance.

Tara felt sick. "Shirley, where's Alan?"

Shirley threw quick looks at the three of them. "There was a shooting outside the courthouse. We have to talk."

* BL * BL * BL *

"Denny, we have to talk to you."

Denny glanced up as Shirley stepped into the room, followed almost too closely by Paul Lewiston. At first he didn't notice anything unusual, but he frowned quickly and deeply when he saw large patches of red on Shirley's shirt and suit jacket, and even a smudge across her face. "Shirley?" he began, standing. "What happened?"

"We have to tell you something, Denny," Shirley said, coming toward the desk.

"Shirley, what happened to you?" Denny asked. He came around and led her to the sofa. "Sit down, let me get you a drink. What happened?" he asked again.

Shirley allowed herself to be brought across the room, but shook her head when Denny held up a decanter as an offer. "It's important, Denny. Please, let me speak."

Denny furrowed his brow but then came to sit beside her. It bothered him that Paul was remaining so close to her. Even though he was standing, Lewiston was too close for his liking. He preferred Shirley alone, even like this. "Well, what is it?" he asked.

"Denny, it's—"

"What happened to your shirt? Did you cut yourself? "

"No, Denny, I—"

"And your face, you have it on your face, too. What happened? Did someone—attack you, Shirley? Let me get my gun and I'll—"

Shirley started to seem more unsettled. "Denny, no. I need to talk to you about Alan—"

"Alan? _Alan Shore_ did this to you?" Denny started to rise. "I know just which gun to use. I'll pick the one with the dirtiest bullet—"

"Denny, _no_."

Denny had stopped listening. But he was jolted back to the conversation when Paul's voice came crashing over him. "Denny, she's trying to tell you that Alan has been _shot_." Denny stopped abruptly, not quite processing what had been said. He stared at Paul, waiting for more. "This is Alan's blood, Denny. There was a shooting outside the District Court this morning," Paul continued, calmly but clearly upset. "Alan was hit."

Denny sank back down into the sofa. Shirley moved a hand to his knee. "Alan... was shot?" Denny asked. "He was _shot_?"

Unhappily, Paul told him, "It was a drive-by, Denny. Alan pulled Shirley out of the way and got shot. Another man at the scene was wounded, and a young woman, as well. The police are still looking for the gunman. They're not sure who the actual target was."

"Alan was shot?" Denny asked again.

Shirley exchanged looks with Paul, and then looked back to Denny. "The bullet hit him in the chest, Denny. He's been taken to Mass General. They're operating now. I didn't want to leave the hospital, but I thought we should tell you in person, and we didn't want to wait..."

Denny's eyes stared at nothing as he realized what they were saying. "...in case he doesn't make it."

Paul spoke up. "No, Denny, that's not why. The doctors are doing a fine job—"

"But he might not make it."

"We have no reason to believe that, Denny. We just thought you should know before you saw it on the news."

Denny stood up. "I've got to get down there."

"You won't be able to see him," Shirley told him. "He'll be in surgery, and even _you_ can't get in _there_."

"But I have to _be_ there, Shirley. I have to _be_ there. He'll know if I'm not. Alan always knows."

* BL * BL * BL *

Tara and Brad sat impatiently in the waiting room, having come to Massachusetts General Hospital after Shirley explained what had happened. Tara was going to go on her own, but Brad had insisted on coming, saying she might be too upset to drive.

"Thank you for bringing me down here," Tara said after they had been quiet for awhile. "I know Alan's not your favorite person."

"Well, just because he's not my best friend doesn't mean I want him to get _shot_," Brad said in his own defense.

"I know that," Tara replied quickly. "I'm just saying you could have let Denise bring me, or I could have come on my own, or—"

"Not with the state you're in at the moment. No way," Brad answered. "And Denise is helping sort out Alan's caseload. Someone had to be here."

"Shirley will be back once she tells Denny. And I'm sure he'll be here as well."

"Well, that doesn't take care of _now_, does it?"

"No." Tara smiled, genuinely grateful. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

They were quiet again for a time. Then: "I really thought I had Shore pegged. But now, I'm not so sure."

Tara looked at Brad. "What do you mean?"

"I was pretty sure Alan would never do anything that didn't promote his own self-interests. I was _certain_ he would never do anything that would put his pretty-boy self in any jeopardy. But this just knocks that theory on its head. Who is this guy, really?"

"I would think his actions today speak for themselves."

"Yeah, it was pretty noble of him," Brad admitted.

"Marine Corps noble?" Tara pressed.

"Maybe," Brad acquiesced. "I gotta admit, Tara, I just can't understand why all the women go after him the way they do."

"Because they should be drooling after you instead?"

"Yes. No!—Stop putting words in my mouth. I mean I just can't see the attraction."

Tara's lips quirked in a smile. "I'm sure Alan would appreciate that."

Brad shot her a look, then replied, "Seriously, how can you moon over a guy like Shore? He's self-centered, he's pompous, he moved in on Denny as soon as he came here to protect his own ass, he—"

Tara cut him off. "Brad, he's in the operating theatre with a bullet in his chest because he tried to protect Shirley Schmidt today. Can't you give him credit even _now_?"

Brad ran his hand through his hair. "Sorry. I can. I just don't get him. Why doesn't he show his _noble_ side at work? Why does he have to be so… so…"

"So _Alan_?"

Brad sighed and folded his arms in front of him. "Maybe."

"Brad, did you ever make room for the possibility that maybe he's just a very complex person and you don't know him well enough?"

"No. Did you ever make room for the possibility that he's just a _jerk_?"

"Yes. But he's not."

How do you know _that_?"

"It's quite obvious to anyone who cares enough to take notice."

"_Really,_" Brad replied.

"Really."

"Well, I must admit I haven't wanted to afford him the chance after our first few encounters. Why don't you enlighten me?"

"Very well: he has a very strict sense of right and wrong, he _always_ stands up for the oppressed and the underdog, he's fiercely loyal to his friends, he quite freely _admits_ his shortcomings, and when it comes right down to it, he'll do _anything_ to make sure that someone he cares about isn't unfairly dealt with. No matter what the potential cost to himself." Tara smiled a gently smug smile at her colleague. "_These_ are not the characteristics of a jerk."

Brad made a face.

"You don't believe me!"

"Well, he's sure done a great job of fooling people. Until today."

"Alan Shore is a wounded soul. He's been hurt so badly that at some stage he closed himself off and now he lets no one get close to him. Except for those rare occasions when the urge to love, and to _be_ loved, is so strong that he can't help himself, and he opens himself up. Unfortunately, human nature being what it _is_, he invariably gets hurt again. And so he retreats. Again. Not so hard to understand, really."

Brad shrugged. "Quite the psychiatrist, aren't you?" he said. "So, who hurt him enough to turn him into _this_?"

"I don't know," Tara admitted. "But if they ever cross paths with _me_, they're dead."


	4. Chapter 4

I own nothing but my imagination.

* BL * BL * BL *

"I screwed up, Shirley." Denny shook his head as he turned away from the coffee vending machine, his voice tight, and low. He and Shirley had come back to the hospital as soon as work re-distribution had been discussed, something Paul and Denise promised to do for them, and now Denny was stirring a drink in a little paper cup with a plastic stick, angry at having to do so, because he was angry at himself.

Shirley pulled her cup out from the machine. "What do you mean, Denny? What did you screw up?"

"I got mad at Alan because he took a case I didn't agree with, and I… well, I stopped being friends with him."

"Oh. So that's what that was about," Shirley said. "I thought you both seemed a bit off this morning."

"I blew him off. I mean I blew him _right off_. Wouldn't talk to him. Gave him _the look. _He was crushed! I shouldn't have done it. But I took the case personally, and I—I couldn't help myself. I got scared."

"He'll understand, Denny," Shirley consoled him, though thinking back to the associate's melancholy in his office earlier, and how lost he had seemed without his best friend.

"I _love_ Alan, Shirley. I need to tell him I'm sorry. I have to make sure he _knows_ I was a stupid bastard." He looked up from his coffee and into her face. "Will I have the chance to do that?"

Shirley put a hand reassuringly on Denny's arm. "You will. And I'm sure he'll be gracious enough to disagree. Even if you're right."

* BL * BL * BL *

"I'm looking for Alan Shore?"

Denise came further into reception when she heard the older nun's request. "Can I help you?" she asked.

"I'm looking for Alan Shore. He's been dealing with a family situation."

Denise bit her lip. "I'm afraid Alan Shore is indisposed at the moment. May I ask who you are?"

"I'm Sister Theresa."

"How do you do, Sister," Denise answered, holding out her hand. The nun shook it, tentatively. "I'm Denise Bauer. What is it Alan is looking after that you're concerned with?"

"George McLaughlin's case. About his mother?"

"Oh," Denise replied. Paul had taken that case over, so she hadn't read the file in full —but she knew that it had caused more than a little fuss the previous day between Alan and Denny. "One of our senior partners, Paul Lewiston, is looking after that. May I tell him why you're here?"

"I'm George's sister, Ms. Bauer. My Christian name is Alice. I'm the one George is accusing of murdering our mother."

* BL * BL * BL *

Paul's eyebrows rose nearly into his hairline. "She's a _nun_?"

"Well, we should have expected it, I suppose," Denise said.

"Really?" Paul retorted, pacing behind his desk. "Do we _regularly_ put nuns on trial for murder?"

"I don't think that's what Alan was doing here."

"Well, what do you think is going to come out of it, Denise? If Alan succeeds in getting a wrongful death judgment for the demise of George McLaughlin's mother, then murder charges are most likely going to follow, and Crane, Poole and Schmidt will be responsible for putting a _nun_ behind bars."

"Right now, I'd be happy with that, Paul," Denise replied. Paul stopped pacing long enough to look at her inquisitively. "I'd be happy to see Alan doing _anything_ at the moment… even if it means the firm looks a little less than rosy to the media."

Paul stopped worrying just long enough to consider Denise's statement. He nodded agreement. "So would I."

* BL * BL * BL *

Brad had a court appearance and the police called Shirley to give them more information, which left Tara and Denny alone in the waiting room. There had been calls from the others, but Tara had convinced worried colleagues to stay at work. Anything was better than trying not to think about what was happening in the operating room right now. She wished for a distraction herself, but couldn't bear the thought of being too far away from Alan, even though she knew there was no way he knew she was there. He needed people near him now, people who could see past the wall he almost always seemed to build around himself. How scared would he have felt? How alone?

Tara shuddered.

"You all right?"

She looked up, startled, at the sound of Denny's voice. He stood before her, holding out a paper cup. "Crap coffee," he offered, "but full of caffeine."

Tara smiled wanly and took it. "I wouldn't be sleeping now, anyway," she said. "I don't normally nap in the afternoon."

"Stress makes you tired." Denny sat down next to her. "You all right?" he asked again.

"I'm fine, Denny," Tara replied. "What about _you_?"

"Lock and load," came the automatic answer. Then: "Or… whatever."

Tara turned in her chair and put her hand on Denny's arm. "Denny, are you all right?"

"I'm Denny Crane," he said, but sadly to Tara, without the conviction that usually accompanied that statement.

"Yes," Tara answered. "Denny…"

"I'm Denny Crane, _dammit_," the name partner repeated, forcefully. "What the hell is taking them so long in there?"

"It's complicated, apparently," Tara said. "The bullet pierced his… intercostal space, or… something like that."

Denny shot her a confused look. "What the hell is that?"

"It's the space in between his ribs… I think. I think that's what the nurse told Shirley. They have to remove the bullet and make sure it didn't do any damage to his major organs."

"Why don't they speak English, for God's sake," Denny muttered angrily. "I read law books, not _Gray's Anatomy_."

Tara smiled. "Hopefully it's the last time we'll ever have to hear anything like that, anyway."

Denny briefly studied Tara. "I didn't want to hear it the _first_ time." He drained his cup. "More of this instant crap?" he asked.

"Thanks, but I haven't finished the first cup."

"You're luckier than I am."

Denny stood up to go back to the vending machine when a woman dressed in neat scrubs came into the room. "You're waiting for news about Alan Shore?" she asked.

Denny exchanged looks with Tara, who stood up on shaky legs next to him. "Where is he?" Denny asked. "Is he all right?"

The woman gave a short nod. "Mr. Shore is out of surgery," she said.

"How is he?" Tara asked.

"The surgery went well," the nurse answered.

"Is he awake?" Denny asked.

"Can we see him?" Tara added.

"Mr. Shore is in Recovery," she said. "I'm afraid you can't see him there. The doctors have woken him up, but he's quite groggy. If he's awake when he's taken to his room in about an hour, you can see him then."

They thanked her and she left. Tara smiled broadly. "Well," she announced, "I think I'll finish this cup of crap coffee now. Plenty to be awake for in an hour."

* BL * BL * BL *

"The nurse said one at a time," Denny said, as he and Tara reached Alan's room. "You go first."

"Denny, are you sure?" Tara asked.

"Sure I'm sure. I'll go grab another cup of that crap coffee."

Tara offered him a smile, then turned and opened the door. For some reason she was shocked at Alan's appearance, though to be honest it was better than she had imagined. The head of the bed had been raised so he was lying at a forty-five degree angle. A tube was running from an intravenous drip bottle to somewhere under the sheet covering him, and a heart rate monitor was keeping tabs on him. An oxygen line was under his nose. He was pale, very pale, and somehow, despite his silence, he seemed uncomfortable. His eyes were half open, but seemed to be taking in nothing. Her attention turned to the nurse removing a blood pressure cuff from his arm and recording something on his medical chart. "Oh," she said. "I'm sorry; they said it was all right to—"

"Oh, it's fine, I'm nearly done," said the large woman. "The doctor wants him awake a little longer anyhow. Alan," she said in a louder voice. "Alan, honey, there's a pretty girl here to see you. You need to open your eyes wider and look at her."

Tara put her jacket and handbag on the chair and then came to the side of the bed. She was struck by Alan's stillness. He blinked once very slowly, his breathing slow and rhythmic, almost in time with the beeping monitor attached to him. She could see that his right arm had been strapped to remain close to his body, probably to avoid any movement that would ruin the work the doctors had done on his chest on that side, but his left arm remained unrestrained outside the covers, and so she took hold of his hand, gently, as the nurse continued her work.

"Hello, you," she said softly, smiling.

He blinked drowsily at her but said nothing.

"It's been quite a day," she said, squeezing his hand gently. His almost complete lack of expression, of focus, bothered her, though she knew it was likely the combination of surgery and pain medication that was responsible for it. She tried again. "You certainly know how to get a girl's attention," she said brightly.

Again no words or change in his face. Tara frowned, then looked at the nurse. "I'm sorry, does he—understand what I'm saying?"

The nurse smiled kindly and paused in her work. "I'm sure he does. What's your name?" she asked Tara as she moved to Alan's side.

"Tara Wilson."

"Alan," the nurse said in a raised voice. "Alan, look at me." His blank gaze slid slowly toward her. "Tara here wants to spend some time with you. Are you going to talk to her tonight, or are you going to leave her stranded here talking to herself?"

Alan blinked. His mouth opened slightly as if to answer, but words didn't materialize. The nurse smiled. "He's still being knocked around a little by the surgery," she explained to Tara. "Alan, my name is LoWanda," she said to him, again louder and clearer in voice. "You talk to me first. We'll wake you up for Tara. You remember where you are?"

Alan's mouth opened and shut with a whisper Tara couldn't even begin to hear. But the nurse, apparently more experienced with this soft speaking, did just fine. "That's right, the hospital. You remember what happened to you?"

Again Alan's mouth moved. His eyes seemed to struggle to stay open. "That's right," LoWanda said with a nod. A few more movements. "I know," she replied, this time her voice soft, and very gentle. She held up some sort of remote that she'd been hooking up to an IV bottle that was connected to Alan somewhere under the sheet. There was a single button on it. "If it hurts too much, you press this button and it'll release a little bit of help for you, okay? I'm going to leave it near your left hand. Press it too many times and it will call me, so you'd better behave yourself or be ready to samba when I get in here, right?"

Alan's eyes seemed to brighten at the banter and they followed LoWanda as she came around to Tara's side of the bed to lay the device down. Tara released Alan's hand to allow her to position it properly.

"It's morphine," she explained softly to Tara. "Controlled release. If he tries to take too much it will cut off and call me to check on him." Tara nodded. "Don't worry; the surgery went well. He's just tired. If you're persistent he'll stay awake." LoWanda spoke louder to get Alan's attention again. "Alan, I'm leaving you alone with Tara now. Don't you take advantage of her, you hear me?"

The tiniest hint of a smile touched Alan's lips. LoWanda smiled back, patted his left hand, and was gone.

Tara took Alan's hand again. He looked up at her quietly. She smiled, but couldn't sustain it. "You scared me, Alan," she confessed. "If you want to thrill a girl, I can tell you many ways that would be less traumatic to both of us. And probably a lot more fun."

"Sorry," came the nearly inaudible reply.

Tara felt tears stinging behind her eyes. Here was a man who usually made such a point of reminding people of how self-adoring he was, though she suspected he was just the opposite, a man who'd risked his own life to protect someone else, a man who was lying in a hospital bed with tubes sticking out of him and monitors all around him. And this man was apologizing. "You'd better be," she retorted, against everything she was feeling. She brushed her fingertips across his forehead, a whisper of a soothing caress. "Don't ever do it again."

Alan moved his mouth as though answering, but she couldn't hear him. "Sh," she quieted him softly. The effort of simply breathing in and out seemed to be exhausting him. "You just concentrate on getting better."

Alan's eyes closed slowly, but Tara felt his grip on her hand briefly tighten. "You… smell… good," he murmured.

Tara smiled at those words and what they truly meant to Alan Shore. She stroked his hand comfortingly. "You smell good, too."

* BL * BL * BL *

"He's very tired, but he's holding his own," Tara said when she came out of the room.

"If he's tired, I'd—better leave him alone," Denny said, ready to start back down the hall.

"Denny, don't be silly; you're Alan's _best friend_. He'll feel much better if he just gets to see you. Now go on."

"No, no, it's fine," Denny protested. He held up a paper cup. "I need to – get rid of this anyway; I'll see him another time. I—"

Tara plucked the coffee cup from his hand and steered him toward the room. "What's wrong with you?" she asked, shaking her head. _"Go."_

And Denny suddenly found himself in the room with Alan, with the door closing emphatically behind him.

He looked to see if his entrance had been noticed. But in truth, it appeared it had not. Alan's eyes were closed, his breathing steady and slow. Denny moved quietly, uncertainly, toward the bed, watching Alan's face the whole time. He saw lines etched on his face that hadn't been there before, probably put there by his suffering today; certainly the angry red scrape on his right cheek was new. _From when he hit the concrete stairs at the courthouse,_ Denny guessed. He seized Alan's left hand in both of his own, suddenly gripped with an overwhelming heartsickness at the knowledge that he could have lost this friend today, without ever having told him…

Alan's eyes fluttered open at the jostling.

"Heyyyy," Denny greeted him in a low voice, trying to sound hearty. He gave Alan's hand a little shake in between his own.

He watched Alan's head turn just ever-so-slightly in his direction, almost as though his eyes didn't have the strength to move on their own. Denny swallowed the lump in his throat. He tried to sound encouraging. "Shirley says you probably saved her life today. You know that means I'm in your debt. Anyone who takes care of Shirley…" Denny drifted off when Alan didn't pick up on his cheerfulness.

Alan just continued staring at Denny, still breathing with apparent effort. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, and rough. "I tried it… out for you… Denny."

"What? What do you mean?" Denny asked, perplexed. He moved in closer so his friend didn't have to strain so hard to be heard. He worried a little more when he saw Alan's eyes close again.

"Being shot. I… tried it out for you, so I could… see what you're asking for… when you're ready."

"Oh," Denny answered simply. He felt a pang of guilt. Then he dismissed it. He needed to give his full concentration to his best friend, not his conscience. And if Alan was trying to be flip about this horror, then he would play along. "What do you think?"

"I don't like it," Alan declared, still seeming glib somehow, although his voice was so weak. "It hurts."

"Well, I don't suppose that's very good," Denny agreed.

"I think… even if you die… you'd have to feel… some… blast of… pain first." Denny blinked hard as Alan opened his eyes and tried to look at him. Alan's eyes were intense, even though his energy was almost non-existent. "I don't… want you to feel that… Denny."

Denny squeezed Alan's hand, almost tighter than he dared, his heart so full at the idea that this man, this _boy_, whom he had snubbed and ignored, whom deep inside Denny knew he had been hurting so much by withdrawing his closeness, was still thinking of their friendship. Of course Alan hadn't been shot on purpose to check out the viability of Denny's wishes—indeed, if the Mad Cow wasn't getting to him, Denny was sure that Alan once told him he'd been shot in the past; but neither did he forget Denny in his own darkest hour. "I'll have to find something else, then," he said finally. He watched Alan's eyes slowly shut again. "Alan," he said. "Alan, I want you to know that I'm—"

"Denny Crane."

Denny's lowered eyes shot open at Alan's whispered words. "Alan?"

"You're Denny Crane," Alan repeated softly, without opening his eyes. "Say it… Denny. You know it… brings me… comfort. It… always has."

Denny smiled, and thanked God for his best friend, who always somehow knew just what to say. "All right, Alan," he said. He braced himself, then murmured as though it were a proclamation: "Denny Crane."

Then he watched as a small smiled crept onto Alan's face, and the younger man drifted off to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

Only the ideas, words and OCs are mine. Everything else belongs to David E. Kelley… lucky guy…

* BL * BL * BL *

"We need to make this _go away_," Paul declared, pacing his office.

"Why don't we have a meeting with both parties?" Brad suggested. "See if we can't get them to come to an understanding."

"I don't think the _sister_ is represented by counsel," Paul replied.

"_I_ could represent her." Paul looked askance at the junior partner. "I could waive conflict. We could get it all over with in one hit."

Paul considered for just a second before asking, "And if that doesn't work?"

Brad shrugged. "We go to trial, I guess, and ask for it to be dismissed on summary judgment."

"There's only one problem there," Paul noted.

"What's that?"

"_I'm_ supposed to be working _against_ that." Paul sighed, all the wind suddenly going out of his sails. "Look, let's… get George and his sister in here to have a talk. We need to get this out of our way before it blows up into something that could be very, very bad for everyone involved. I'll call the sister, try and convince her that you representing her could be in the best interests of everyone involved. Then let's hope we're right."

"Okay."

"If this ends up going to trial, the managing partners will have a field day with Alan Shore. And as much as I agree with that sentiment, I have to admit I'm feeling a little softer toward him today." Paul shook his head. "There is a man I'm sure I will _never_ understand."

* BL * BL * BL *

Denise knocked lightly on Shirley's open office door early the next morning. "Good morning."

Shirley looked up from her work. "Good morning."

"You're in awfully early."

Shirley took off her glasses and laid them on her desk. "I couldn't sleep."

"Yeah, I guess I couldn't, either." Denise came into the office and sat across from her friend. "Did you go visit Alan last night?"

"I tried," Shirley answered. "But when I got there he was asleep and I didn't want to wake him up."

"How's Denny?"

"He spent most of last night there, mainly watching Alan sleep, as I understand it, at least until the nurses chased him out." Shirley's mind ran back to less than twenty-four hours ago, when Alan was so upset and Denny so angry at him. Such insignificant conflicts, when faced with life and death.

Denise studied Shirley's face carefully. "Shirley, what happened yesterday wasn't your fault." Shirley just smiled briefly at her. "Shirley, I mean it. You didn't get Alan shot."

Shirley nodded. "I know. It's just that one minute we're walking out of the courthouse; the next minute there are tires screeching and popping noises and Alan's lying on top of me bleeding all over the steps." She shook her head, still in disbelief. "It could have been me who'd been shot, Denise," she said. "If Alan hadn't grabbed me when he did, it probably would have been."

Denise nodded but said nothing.

"I had bad dreams last night," Shirley said finally. "All I could see was Alan lying on those stairs, looking at me. He couldn't speak, but I could see the accusation in his eyes."

Denise leaned forward. "He didn't _really_—"

Shirley shook her head quickly. "No, of course not. If anything, he looked… bewildered. Alan was behind me; whatever happened, he chose to do it himself. Obviously my own conscience is wondering otherwise." She shrugged. "I kept waking up. There was no point in staying home."

Denise pursed her lips. "I'm sorry, Shirley," she said. "Are you going to visit again today?"

"I thought around lunch time. They might make sure he's awake for meals."

Denise stood up. "I'm going to try and get there later. Meantime, I'd better get some work done. We've got the nun coming in today."

"The _nun_?"

"One of Alan's cases. George McLaughlin. He's accusing his sister of euthanizing their mother."

Shirley nodded. "Oh, yes, I remember seeing that young thing in here yesterday."

But Denise shook her head. "You're talking about Sister Joseph," she said. "I'm talking about George's sister, Alice. She's a nun, too, Shirley. George says his sister, the nun, killed their mother."

"Dear God." Shirley pursed her lips. "Only Alan could find one like this."

"Paul is close to having heart failure. Helping get nuns brought up on murder charges isn't really something he wants the firm known for."

"Then he'd better start praying. Because Alan's the one who treats these like child's play… and I think Paul's forgotten how to be a child."

* BL * BL * BL *

Shirley opened the door to the hospital room quietly, in case Alan was sleeping again. But when she entered, she saw his eyes were open and he was stirring restlessly in the bed, concentrating fiercely on the foot of his bed, his eyes intent as though boring into it. A barely-touched lunch tray had been pushed carelessly away. As she approached him, Alan broke his stare, turned on a cheerful face, and looked at her. "Shirley."

"Hello, Alan," she greeted in return. "You're looking better than you were last night."

"Last night?" he repeated, puzzled.

"I came last night but you were asleep. And you had a tube under your nose."

Alan offered a small smile. "Ah. The oxygen. It got in the way, and I told the doctor I was quite capable of breathing the air everyone else does. Even if there _is_ smog in it." He tried to draw in a deep breath to demonstrate but pulled up short when it clearly caused him discomfort. He shifted awkwardly, and for a moment the look of determined concentration returned.

Shirley frowned. "Are you in much pain?"

"Just enough," Alan announced. Shirley dropped her eyes. Alan noticed. "Sorry. Hospital humor. Not to worry," he said cheerfully. "If it gets to be too much, I have a… special button I can push to make everything go away." He glanced the remote control lying inches from his fingertips.

He reached for it as if to show her. Shirley frowned as she saw him trying to be surreptitious about pushing it. "Denny says you punctured a lung," she said.

"Just a little," Alan replied. "But they took care of that when they took care of the hole that created the problem in the first place. It just needs time now."

Shirley smiled gamely. "You sound bored with it."

"It helps to think of it as a temporary inconvenience. Although it _will_ make cigar smoking difficult for a couple of weeks."

"Denny will be lonely," she predicted. "Maybe I'll have to take it up for a few days."

"Just let me have what's left when you're done with it," Alan replied. "I'd love to know what it's like to own something you've sucked on."

Alan's cheeky words didn't match his tone, or his graying face. Shirley cleared her throat. "You barely touched your lunch," she said, trying to distract both of them.

"Hard to do with one hand," Alan explained a bit too dismissively.

The senior partner was relieved to have something to focus on other than her worry. "Here," she said, reaching toward the tray. "Let me help you. You must be starving."

"No, no, I don't want you to go to any trouble."

"Don't be silly, Alan; it's no trouble at all. I'll just—"

"_No."_ Alan reached out his hand and touched her arm, stopping her from continuing. The touch was unusually forceful, and when Shirley looked at him, startled, any doubt that he was hiding something disappeared. Alan was staring not at the tray but through it, his grip still strong on her arm, his jaw slack as he focused on inhaling and exhaling. A sheen of perspiration covered his ashen face; she realized he was trying to dial down pain.

She was about to say something when all at once he drew himself out of this trance-like state and deliberately eased both his hold and his manner. He looked her in the eye and spoke with a calmness she was certain he didn't feel. "I'm not… really… hungry," he said, his eyes practically begging her not to say anything. Shirley worried as Alan's breathing became more labored, and although his eyes were meeting hers, his attention was clearly drawn to something internal. Still, he continued with the pretense. "Plus, they put... fruit... in their Jell-o, and I'm a... Jell-o purist."

Alan sank back into his pillow. Shirley saw him push the button in his hand again. "Alan, about yesterday, I—"

"I hear there were other people wounded at the courthouse," Alan said over her.

Shirley blinked but accepted his diversionary tactic. "Yes. A young man and a woman."

"How are they?"

"The man got away with a flesh wound; the woman is still in ICU."

"Oh. And... the shooter?"

"They're still looking."

Alan stared at the ceiling for a moment, then closed his eyes. Shirley noticed with renewed worry that his breathing was now very tight, and heavy. A single bead of sweat rolled down his temple. "Alan?"

"I have cases," he gasped, opening his eyes but continuing to look upwards. He pushed his head hard against the pillow and once again pressed the button.

"Paul is handling the McLaughlin case, and I have Denise working on the Curtis case with me now," Shirley informed him, wishing he'd stop trying to make it seem that there was nothing going on.

"McLaughlin. George is still… going ahead?" Alan said, panting.

"That's what I last heard this morning, yes," Shirley answered.

Alan closed his eyes again, and Shirley watched, her concern increasing, as he grimaced and took short, distinct breaths through his teeth. Soon, he opened his eyes and looked at her, his expression almost blank, and clearly exhausted. "I had hoped… after we spoke yesterday…" His voice trailed off. "Tara is more knowledgeable than Denise regarding educational law," Alan finally said through an exhalation of breath.

"I know," Shirley replied. "But at the moment she has enough on her plate and we don't want to put more pressure on her." She waited. "Alan?"

Alan closed his eyes tightly. "I'm sorry, Shirley. I need to make… everything… go away now."

Shirley watched Alan's shaking hand press the button for a fourth time, then a fifth. A machine in the room started beeping. Unsure what it meant, but certain Alan was not coping, she decided to get someone's help. But when she turned to head into the hallway, the door opened and a nurse walked in.

"He been pressing this button?" the young woman asked, indicating the one in Alan's hand as she went around to check the machine.

"Yes," Shirley answered.

"Too many times," the nurse replied, resetting the machine to stop the noise. She looked at her patient. "Alan, too much of that stuff is no good for you. You remember we told you that?" she asked him.

Alan's chest heaved with a couple of breaths intended to give him strength to answer audibly. His words came out as a weak whisper. "It isn't… working," he puffed.

"It needs time, Alan," she said, not unkindly. "It'll work in a few minutes. You breathing okay?"

"It's hard…. It… hurts…"

"Not for long," she promised. "I'll stay with you till it's better, okay?" Alan let out a tiny sound in reply as the nurse came around the bed to remove the button from his clenched fist. Shirley stepped back, unsure what to do. "I'm afraid this visit is over," the nurse said to her. "You can come back another time when he's more settled."

Shirley nodded, then watched as the nurse then turned her full attention to Alan, running her hand softly across his forehead and speaking soothingly to him. As she took his hand and expertly worked to quiet him, Shirley walked out.

* BL * BL * BL *

"Thank you both for coming this morning," Paul began. He looked across the conference room table at Brad, who was sitting next to Sister Theresa, and then at George McLaughlin, seated beside him. "I realize this is a very difficult thing for both of you."

"Not so difficult," George said. "The more I thought about it, the more I thought Alice didn't have any right to do what she did."

"You sound angry, George," Sister Theresa said.

"I am," McLaughlin agreed. "You killed Ma!"

"I did no such thing," came the irritated reply.

"Please, please," Paul interceded. "We're not going to get anywhere like this. We need to discuss things calmly."

"Calmly? How would you like it if someone killed _your_ mother because it was too much work to look after her?"

"I _didn't _do that!"

"Sister, please. Please," Brad implored, placing a calming hand on her arm. He looked at McLaughlin. "George, we're here to try and work things out, not cause more grief between the two of you."

"I want my lawyer," George demanded. "I had Alan Shore. _He_ didn't think I was causing any trouble."

Paul frowned. "You didn't tell Alan Shore that your sister was a _nun_," he said pointedly.

"You think nuns can't kill someone?" McLaughlin accused.

"Okay, that's enough," Brad said strongly.

"George, I can't believe you're saying this," Sister Theresa said. "Our mother was dying. She was _dying_!"

"Not fast enough for _you_," her brother said.

"You don't know what happened, George. You weren't there. You were _never_ there, were you?"

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"It means you weren't there at the end, you didn't _see_ what happened to her, you don't _know_ how this happened, and you go running to a lawyer—to do _what_? Was it going to bring Mom back?"

"Taking you to court might teach you a lesson!"

"_What_ lesson?"

"Hey, _hey_!" Brad practically shouted over the rapidly rising voices. The siblings stopped abruptly. "We're just talking here. George, we're doing exactly what Alan Shore would be doing if he was here right now—discovering the whole story. Now you know as well as I do that if he'd known Alice was a member of a religious order that he'd have had a lot more questions for you."

George shifted in the chair, embarrassed. "Yeah. He did."

Paul leaned forward in his chair. "What do you mean 'He did'?"

"He called me yesterday morning. He said he found out Alice was a nun and he wanted to know why I didn't tell him."

"And?" Paul asked archly.

George shrugged sheepishly. "I forgot," he admitted. "I guess I was upset." Paul and Brad exchanged glances. "Plus I didn't think it was important."

"You didn't think it was important," Paul repeated.

"No," George said, defending himself. "Religious people do the wrong thing all the time. You keep hearing about it on the news, don't you?"

Seeing Paul getting hot under the collar, Brad spoke up. "That's true, but every case is unique, George." He looked from sister to brother. "And what did Alan say?"

"He wanted me to… meet with Alice… talk about things." He paused for a moment, the looked up at the others. "That's what we're doing now, right?"

"This doesn't sound like what he had in mind," Paul put in sourly. "But it _does_ sound like there's a lot we haven't been told—and that we are not being told even now." He waited for an answer, looking from one chastised sibling to the other. "Am I right?" he finally prompted.

Sister Theresa nodded slowly. George looked away.

"Then let's have a sensible, civilized discussion, and no more of these wild accusations hurled across the table." Paul straightened his jacket. "Agreed?" Silence. _"Agreed?"_

Finally, nodded and mumbled agreement. "Good. Then let's start this again."

Paul cleared his throat, ready to lay the ground rules of the discussion, when the door to the conference room opened and Denny leaned in. He looked at Sister Theresa. "You the nun?" he asked abruptly.

Sister Theresa looked at Brad and then Paul, then back to Denny. She nodded.

"Hmf. And you're the brother?" Denny asked with a chin raise to McLaughlin. Another nodded response. "Right. When it's time, it's time. She did the right thing. Suck it up, soldier."

The four people in the room stared at Denny, speechless. "I'm going back to see Alan," the name partner said. "I expect this to be gone by the time I get back." He offered them a brief, satisfied smile. "Denny Crane."


	6. Chapter 6

David E. Kelley is a genius. I just use his characters…

* BL * BL * BL *

The first thing Alan's eyes focused clearly on after waking up from a long, drug-induced sleep was Denny, who was sitting slouched in a chair near the foot of the bed, his own eyes closed, his breathing steady.

"Denny?" A deeper breath from the senior partner. "Denny."

Denny grunted, then opened his eyes. He frowned until he realized who had called his name. "Alan," he said, standing quickly and coming to his side. "How are you feeling?"

"Have you been here a long time, Denny?" asked Alan.

"No, no, not long, not long," Denny lied. In truth, he'd been there about an hour and a half _before_ he fell asleep. And he didn't know how long he'd been dozing. He could have left—he was _encouraged _to, by the nurses who moved in and out of the room, saying that Alan would continue to sleep for some time—but he couldn't bear the thought of Alan waking up and finding himself alone. "You just looked so comfortable, I thought I'd see what it was like myself," he added.

Alan blinked a few times deliberately, trying to wake up. "I feel like Rip Van Winkle," he said. "What time is it?"

Denny glanced at his watch. "About four-thirty."

Alan furrowed his brow, frustrated. "I slept almost all afternoon."

"You had something else planned for the day?" Denny asked, smiling, to hopefully lighten Alan's load. "Maybe you were going to watch _Oprah_?"

Alan shook his head. "No, I just…" He let his thought go unfinished.

"You're not used to all the attention," Denny guessed.

"Maybe," Alan admitted.

"Well, get used to it," Denny ordered. "Because you're staying here until the doctor convinces me that you'll be okay when you're out of here. And when you're out of here, you're going to recuperate in good company. You're coming to stay with me."

"I thought you just said I was going to be in good company," Alan teased softly.

Denny shot Alan a quick look that for a split-second made Alan think he'd overstepped, and that he'd made Denny angry at him again. God, he couldn't take that now, not right now when he needed his friend so much. Had it been only yesterday that the idea of Denny never speaking to him again seemed so frighteningly possible?

But almost as soon as the look had appeared, an easy smile made its way to Denny's lips, and eyes. "You dog, you," he scolded gently. Alan relaxed. Denny looked Alan in the eye, and his expression grew serious. "Is there anything I can get you? Anything you need?"

"Actually, Denny, I have an itch in the middle of my back, and I can't reach it without… uh… without…" _Crumbling in agony… _Alan made a helpless gesture with his left hand to show reaching the spot would be impossible.

"A good stiff drink?" Denny asked knowingly.

Alan smiled gratefully, appreciating that Denny hadn't made him say it. "Yes. Well… if you could just…" Denny was frustratingly silent now. "Denny, it's driving me crazy. Could you… scratch it?" he asked hopefully, almost as a small child would ask for a cookie right before dinner. Denny wasn't always good with touch.

But Denny shrugged and nodded once. "Sure."

Alan grimaced painfully as he struggled to pull himself up, and he readily accepted the support quickly offered to help him prop himself up on his left arm. Then Denny started scratching. "No, no, up a little… up a little…. To the left… There, right there…. Oh…" Alan closed his eyes and moaned in relief. "Oh! Denny, that's probably the nicest thing you've ever done for me. Thank you."

Denny helped ease Alan back onto the mattress. "What about that hot tomato I found for you on our last visit to the spa?"

Alan shook his head wearily, worn out by the exertion of the move, and laughed softly. "Denny, sex for me right now would be an excruciatingly painful experience. Just the thought of it turns my stomach."

"Really?" Denny asked, astounded.

"Really. Just… sneezing… is exquisite agony. Imagine moving vigorously enough to have satisfying sex."

Denny's eyes grew distant. "I can imagine that."

Alan chuckled softly. "Yes, I'm certain you can." He laughed a little harder, and Denny joined in, until Alan's breath hitched when the movements triggered a spasm of pain. They stopped abruptly, then Alan relaxed again and they smiled.

* BL * BL * BL *

Paul came to Brad's office late the next morning, shaking his head in defeat. "Still nothing from McLaughlin," he declared with a sigh, sitting down at his desk. "We got exactly nowhere with that meeting yesterday and today looks to be no better."

Brad shook his head. "Now what?"

"_Now_, all we can do is hope to put this off as long as it takes for Alan to come back to work, and then let him pull whatever rabbit he has planned out of his hat to make this disappear."

"I told Alice that this might go on for awhile," Brad said. "I was kind of hoping it wouldn't be true."

"Unfortunately, it _might _be."

A knock behind Paul made them both look toward the door.

"Can I talk to you?"

Paul and Brad stood up when they saw George McLaughlin standing there, looking ill at ease. "Mr. McLaughlin," Paul greeted.

"George," the man said.

"George," amended Paul. "Certainly. What can we do for you?"

George wrung his hands for a few seconds. Paul and Brad exchanged looks. Finally, the visitor spoke. "I wanna drop the case."

Paul tried very hard to hide his immense relief. "Are you sure, George?"

McLaughlin looked almost disappointed. "Yeah, I'm sure."

Inside, Paul was dancing for joy. But his face gave nothing away. "Well, that's your prerogative," he said. "Do you mind if I ask _why_ you've changed your mind?"

"It was Mr. Shore."

Brad cocked his head, interested. "Alan Shore?"

"What he said when he called me the other day. I don't mind telling you, sirs, he was pretty peeved with me about Alice. He said he'd wanted to help me and that when I didn't tell him about Alice I'd breached his trust and made him feel betrayed and foolish. But I just forgot! Honestly!" George said earnestly. Paul just raised his eyebrows. "Well, once I got him to understand it was all a mistake, he said he'd go ahead if I still wanted to, as long as I did something he wanted first."

"Which was?" Paul asked.

"He wanted me to go back to Alice and make a list with her. All the things Ma loved to do. When the last time was that she could do them. And then he told us to make another list. All the things that brought us together as kids. And one more list that he wanted us to talk about the longest of all."

"What was it?" Brad prompted.

"All the things that tore us apart that we never talked about. He said he wanted us to talk about them till they ended up on the list of things that brought us together instead of the things that broke us up." George stopped and thought for a moment. "I didn't want to do it. That's why we still didn't get along yesterday," he said finally. "But… after we left here… Well, I found out what happened to Mr. Shore at the courthouse. And I started thinking about what he'd said to me just that very morning. And then I called Alice. And we met up for coffee, and we talked and talked and talked… We talked for hours, Mr. Chase. There was a lot of stuff between us that I didn't know. She's really a good lady, my sister. I just was so angry… I don't know why I did what I did."

Paul nodded. "Losing someone often makes us act out of character, George," he said sympathetically.

"Yeah. I guess Mr. Shore knew that. You know, he told me he talked to the doctor, and he figured out the reason Ma kept talking about Joanna getting married was that… well, she couldn't remember that Joanna had grown up and taken her vows. And then he told me if Alice and I didn't sort things out by talking, he was going to… what do you call it… meditate…"

"Mediate," Paul corrected. "You mean he was going to try and talk with both of you to try and sort it out without going to court."

"Yeah, that's it," George agreed. "He said we needed to remember how nice it was when Ma was healthy and happy and able to do things… and how important it was for us to be family. He's a smart man, Mr. Lewiston. I hope he gets better soon. Can you please thank him for me? And Alice said to say she's praying for him."

Paul smiled kindly. "We'll certainly tell him," he promised. "Thank you for coming in, George. I'm glad you and your sister were able to reconcile."

"Me, too," George agreed. "I know Ma would have wanted it that way." He held out his hand. "Well… thanks, then."

Paul shook his hand, then Brad did the same. "Take care of yourself, George," Brad said.

And he was gone.

Paul turned back to Brad. "That's it; it's gone."

"Well, who'd have thought Alan would be the voice of family harmony?" Brad observed.

Paul laughed softly. "I suppose we don't really know what goes through that man's mind."

Brad laughed with him. "I suppose not." His mind flew to another one of his colleagues. "I've got to go see Tara."

* BL * BL * BL *

"Okay you win," Brad said as he pulled up behind Tara, who was heading back from the law library to her office.

"Oh, goodie," she replied, deadpan. "A new car?" she asked, continuing to her desk. Brad followed her in. "Or a year's supply of turtle wax?" She sat down and looked at her visitor. "Exactly what is it I've won, Brad?"

"You were right. About Shore."

"Alan?"

"Yeah," Brad shrugged, sitting down across from her comfortably. "George McLaughlin just came in and dropped the wrongful death case against his sister the nun."

"Really," Tara said.

"Yeah. And he said it's because Alan told him to consider what he was doing before he broke up his family out of anger. He apparently told George he'd insist on mediation before he ever considered bringing the case before a judge."

Tara smiled. "Sounds perfectly reasonable to me," she declared.

"It was," Brad replied. "That's why I'm surprised. I thought Alan always went for shock value."

"And I thought we had this discussion the other day," Tara said.

"We did. And that's why I came to tell you you're right. And… maybe I've got him pegged wrong."

Tara widened her eyes in mock scandal. "Imagine my surprise." She smiled gently. "Thank you, Brad."

"What for?"

"For admitting that Alan Shore isn't quite the monster you want him to be."

Brad shrugged. "That doesn't mean he can't be a real jerk when he wants to be," he noted.

"Well. Who of us does that _not_ apply to?" Tara asked. "You know, Brad, if you _really_ want to be a big man, you can tell Alan how you've changed your opinion of him when he comes back to work. Or when I go to visit him at the hospital later today."

"I'm not that big a man."

"Again: imagine my surprise."

"It's not like that, Tara. I just don't think he'll want to hear it. He doesn't have the world's best opinion of me, either. He might see it as more of an insult." Tara raised an eyebrow. "I think he prefers there to be a bit of tension between us."

Tara nodded. "Oh, I see. That 'manly' competition thing, right?"

Brad raised his chin defensively. "Maybe."

Tara laughed out loud. "Well, maybe that's for the best. I think the two of you becoming buddies would be just too much for this firm to take."


	7. Chapter 7

Hope you've enjoyed this story… more to come…

In the meantime, these folks ain't mine! Thanks to David E. Kelley for creating such a rich world in which we can play…

* BL * BL * BL *

Two days later, Denny ran into Paul coming out of the men's room. "I'm surprised to see you here, Denny," Lewiston said. "Didn't I hear that Alan is getting out of the hospital today?"

"That's right," Denny answered with a smile. "The doctor said he's well enough that he can do the rest of his recovery at home."

"That's good news, indeed," Paul said.

"He's being discharged this afternoon. The hospital wants to do some last-minute tests and checks or whatnot first. I'll be heading out after lunch."

"That's very encouraging." Paul nodded, satisfied, and continued down the hall. Denny followed him. "I'm sure he's in good hands."

Denny followed. "Hey," he said, thinking, "I haven't seen that nun or that… McLaughlin fella here since the other day. Everything get sorted out?"

"Thank God, yes," Paul replied.

Denny nodded, self-satisfied. "So they listened to Denny Crane."

"Actually, Denny, they listened to Alan Shore."

"What?" They reached Paul's office. Paul continued inside, Denny entered more slowly. "What do you mean?"

"That session you walked in on, Denny, was a complete fiasco. Brad and I couldn't get George _or_ his sister to see eye to eye on anything."

"That was his _sister_? I thought the nun was his daughter."

"That's a _different_ nun, Denny."

Denny shrugged. "They all look the same in those… sheets they wear over their heads."

Paul raised his eyes to the ceiling but ignored the statement. "The only thing we learned at the meeting was that George hadn't told _Alan_ that his sister was a nun, and when Alan found out, he was not pleased at all."

Denny snorted softly and smiled.

"The meeting ended badly," Paul continued. "But the next day, George came back to us and asked to drop the case. He said when Alan found out about his sister, he insisted that they talk and iron things out. And that if they didn't, he was going to mediate to avoid a trial, and to avoid breaking up the family."

"Alan did _that_?"

"He did," Paul confirmed. "Then, of course, the incident happened at the courthouse and everything came to a grinding halt. But Alan's words had already had an impact on McLaughlin, and eventually they sank in. I don't mind telling you, Denny, I was relieved."

Denny nodded, his mind elsewhere. "Yes…" he said distractedly. "Yes… it makes sense." He looked at Paul. "Got to get moving," he said. "Lock and load."

* BL * BL * BL *

"Alan, are you sure you won't just stay with me?" Denny asked, as the car pulled up in front of his friend's hotel. "Who's going to take care of you?"

Alan smiled fondly at the senior partner beside him in the back seat. "I'm sure, Denny," he said. "I just need to get some sleep, and have some time without any tubes attached to me, and I'll be fine."

Denny thought for a second about how to change Alan's mind. His eyes lit on the younger man's right arm, which was still in a sling to help avoid him jarring his wound. "But—what about—eating? Or—hanging up your clothes? Or—"

Alan lay his left hand on Denny's arm. "I'll manage, Denny. Really. You need to be in the office, and I need some time on my own."

"I'll call," Denny announced.

"That's fine."

"I'll—I'll bring you something nice for dinner—maybe tomorrow night after—"

"Denny, I'll be fine. Thank you. Really. Thank you. For being here today."

Denny nodded, and Alan reached over awkwardly with his left hand to the handle on his right and pushed the door open. Denny resisted the urge to help, sensing Alan wouldn't want him to, and he watched as the younger man stepped out, awkwardly adjusted his long coat over his right shoulder, and disappeared into the building.

* BL * BL * BL *

"Good morning, Denny," Shirley greeted, coming into his office the next morning. "How's Alan?"

"I haven't spoken to him today," he said.

"Wasn't he going to stay with you?" she asked.

"He decided he wanted to be alone." Denny shook his head. "That man confounds me, Shirley. He should be with _people_ now, not by himself."

"Everyone copes with things differently, Denny."

"Hmf," Denny grumbled. "He should be with me. Everyone benefits from being with Denny Crane."

Shirley suppressed a smile. "Perhaps he was afraid that… too much of a good thing…"

"He should be taking my calls. I can't check on him if he doesn't take my calls."

Shirley softened. "Despite his outward appearances, I think Alan would have found all the attention and fuss over the last few days a bit overwhelming. But if anyone knows his own mind, it's him. He'll talk to you when he's ready."

* BL * BL * BL *

Alan came out of the bathroom, rubbing his eyes with his free hand and wishing he'd had a bit more sleep last night. He came into the dining area to find his breakfast laid out and the _Boston Globe_ next to it, as he'd requested, hoping to make his first full day out of the hospital as normal as possible. The only concession he'd made to his current incapacity was to dress in what he thought of as "suit" pajamas instead of the sweatshirt and shorts he usually wore, and to then stay in his dressing gown, untied as it was, instead of changing his clothes before sitting down to eat. He'd made sure he'd ordered something from room service that he could easily handle left-handed: an omelette that he could break apart with little effort.

Alan pulled out the chair, sat down, and picked up his fork. He gamely drove it into the egg, pierced a piece and took a bite. Then he put it down and unfolded the newspaper so he could read the headlines. But after looking for a full minute he realized he wasn't really seeing anything, and he sighed and pushed it away. He picked up his fork again, trying to get himself refocused, but just held it without purpose. He sighed, dropped it onto the plate, and gave up.

He got up from the table and headed to the phone. Unlike so many of his peers, Alan was normally pleased that it was still an old-fashioned desk phone that required him to stay in one place to speak, not one of those cordless ones that let him wander around and get distracted from the conversation at hand. With only one hand fully useful at the moment, though, he lifted the receiver and put it on the table, then started to dial Denny's number. He got three digits in when he slowed, then stopped, unsure of what he could possibly share with his best friend at this time, when he wasn't even sure what he was feeling himself. Regretfully, reluctantly, he cut off the connection and replaced the receiver.

His chest was starting to ache more strongly now, as he knew it would, since he had not had any pills since last night, and he took a moment to simply concentrate on careful, gentle breathing. He went back into the bathroom, struggled with the cap of the medicine bottle, tossed two tablets in his mouth, and washed them down with water he scooped into his hand from the sink. Then he headed back to his unmade bed, and without even getting out of his dressing gown, climbed back under the covers. He'd been right not to stay with Denny, Alan thought. But it was going to be a long, long day.

* BL * BL * BL *

Three nights later, Shirley was working in her office when she was startled by a voice.

"Good evening, Shirley."

She looked up from her desk to see Alan Shore standing in the doorway. His right arm lay cradled in a sling, his long coat draped over it carefully. She was surprised to see him wearing a dress shirt and suit jacket, though it was less than perfectly worn and his tie was markedly absent, and she was struck by the paleness of his face and the quietness of his demeanor. She stood up and came around to him. "Alan! We weren't expecting to see you back here for at least another week."

"And yet here I am."

"And yet here you are." She studied him for a second. "What are you doing here?"

Alan considered. "I needed to be somewhere other than alone with my thoughts." Shirley nodded. "I thought, perhaps, Denny might still be here. And you," he added, as though to make sure she didn't feel second-best.

Shirley smiled and led Alan to the leather sofa, where she sat beside him. "You're right on both counts. I know I haven't phoned, but Denny said you weren't being very sociable and I didn't want to disturb you. I thought Denny could manage that all by himself." Alan smiled softly. "How are you, Alan?" she asked.

"I'm just perfect."

"You don't look perfect. You look…" She hesitated. Alan waited. "… exhausted."

Alan shrugged. "I appreciate the honesty if not the message." The awkward silence prompted him to capitulate. "If you must know, I have a thumping headache the size of New York and the three of you look lovely this evening. But I'll live, I assure you."

Shirley tried to appreciate his wry humor. "It's been a long week," she said.

"It has."

"Alan," Shirley began. Alan gave her his full attention. His blue eyes were piercing. "I tried to say this when you were still in the hospital, but I didn't really know how. And I'm not sure at the time that you could hear me anyway." Alan furrowed his brow. "When I first met you, Alan, I was sure you were trouble. If you recall, I even told you that you were a self-loathing narcissist."

"With a small penis."

Shirley smiled slightly at the memory. "Alan… a narcissist would never have done what you did."

But Alan wouldn't take the kindness. "I was sucking up."

"There are far less dangerous ways of doing that," Shirley countered.

"Nevertheless."

"Alan," Shirley said, taking his good hand, "I was wrong. And what you did probably saved my life. Thank you."

"You're quite welcome."

They said nothing for a moment, and then, uncomfortable with the attention, Alan stood up. "I'd better go find Denny and explain myself," he said.

"Alan," Shirley began. He looked at her. "When I told you that you loathed yourself… I still see that. I hope someday you can come to like and respect yourself at least as much as I have come to. From where I sit, you deserve that."

Alan looked at her for a moment without speaking, then began to leave. When he reached the door, he stopped and turned around. "I have a memory… I don't know, maybe it's a hallucination…" Shirley looked at him questioningly. "When I was first brought to the hospital, did you come to my room and talk to me about my penis?"

Shirley blinked.

"I remember hearing you say… that you were wrong about it being small."

Shirley laughed softly and shook her head.

"Shirley, did you look under my johnny?"

"I wouldn't take advantage of you in your weakest moment, Alan," she replied.

Alan shrugged. "A shame. Good night, Shirley. Stay… safe."

"Good night, Alan. You, too."

* BL * BL * BL *

Denny looked over at Alan, sitting in his usual spot on the balcony, trying hard to regain some normalcy, despite the sling on his right arm and the awkwardness of trying to hold a drink and a cigar at the same time regardless of his incapacity. The younger man still looked terribly pale, Denny thought, and thinner, and more vulnerable than he remembered. How did someone _look_ vulnerable, he suddenly wondered? _Maybe it's when you know things about them that others don't..._

"I still don't know why you're here," Denny said.

"I told you, Denny: I needed to get out. One's thoughts can turn rather morbid when one is alone, and having… had a… difficult… experience."

"I wish you'd stayed at my place like I offered," Denny said through his cigar, his voice gruff and gentle at the same time.

Alan smiled softly. "Denny, most of the time, I've been asleep, I've been in pain, and I've been grumpy. I definitely haven't been good company. I wasn't going to subject you to that."

Denny shook his head. "Pansy," he said. Alan didn't take offense. "I'd have taken care of you, you know."

"I know," Alan replied. "But I'm not good at being looked after. Surely you recognize that."

"I know you _like_ it," Denny countered. "You just don't think you deserve it."

Alan let the statement pass, reflecting just for a moment on the truth of it. "You would have been here most of the time anyway."

"You didn't answer my phone calls," Denny complained.

"Denny, I was asleep or doped up on pain pills. And when I picked up my messages, it was one o'clock in the morning. Would you have liked me to call you then?"

"Forget it," the senior partner dismissed the issue. "I wouldn't hear you at that hour anyway." He took a thoughtful puff on his cigar. "Do you think they were gunning for you, Alan?" he asked. "Or did your ego just get in the way of the bullet?"

"I don't know," Alan answered, putting his drink on the table between them so he could move the cigar from his right hand to his left and raise it to his mouth to draw a puff. It hurt. But he needed the feeling of familiarity it gave him. So he kept the inhaling to a minimum, and blew the smoke out slowly. "The police haven't found the gunman yet."

"Did you see him?"

"I didn't see _anything_."

"Were you scared?"

Alan turned his thoughts even more inward. He grew quiet. "Yes."

Denny noticed the shift in mood, and decided to tackle it the way he always handled Alan's insecurities: head-on. "Pretty unnerving, having someone out there who might hate you enough to kill you," he probed.

Alan laughed very softly, happy that Denny knew how to draw him out of himself. "There have always been people out there who hate me, Denny. This one might just have been bold enough to do something about it. But when my time comes, it comes."

"Very fatalistic for a Democrat."

"You don't have to be a Democrat to think God may have it in for you."

"It helps," Denny said. "After all, we Republicans know God is on _our_ side."

"What about President Lincoln? And McKinley and Garfield, while we're at it? They were Republicans. And they all got shot!"

"Kennedy was, too. _Two_ of them. And they were Democrats. Back on target. Everyone makes mistakes."

Alan laughed in delight. "You think God makes mistakes?"

"Don't you? Look at the platypus! For God's sake, that animal looks like He had leftovers that He didn't know what to do with."

"I like to think of it as all part of a larger plan," Alan said.

"Like what?"

"Like some things are just put on this earth to make us think… or wonder."

Denny waved his cigar dismissively. "What do you want to wonder about?"

"Have you ever seen a lunar eclipse, Denny?"

"You're not supposed to watch those; they make you go blind or something. No, maybe that's masturbation."

Alan ignored the Denny-ism and continued. "That's a _solar_ eclipse, Denny. I'm talking about a lunar eclipse. When I stand there and… watch the moon being darkened by degrees… it always makes me marvel that what's darkening it is the shadow of the Earth. The planet I'm standing on is more than two hundred thirty-eight thousand miles from the moon, and it's casting a shadow on that lonely, desolate hunk of rock that's hanging, magically, in the sky. And that means that something _behind _us is even _bigger_. Doesn't any of that ever make you wonder, Denny?"

Denny shook his head distastefully. "That stuff's for sissies."

Alan sighed and took another small puff of his cigar. "Aristotle is rolling in his grave at that statement, Denny."

"Let him roll. I've got more important things to wonder about. The female shape, for instance. Now _that's_ something to consider."

"It is, indeed," Alan agreed.

The pair sat quietly for a moment. Then Denny asked, "Did you mean what you said in the hospital, Alan? That hearing me say my name comforts you?"

"Absolutely."

"Why?"

"Because it means you are near me, and that, Denny, brings me great comfort."

Denny paused to think about this tribute. "Why didn't you tell me you were going to mediate instead of going to court with McLaughlin?" he asked finally.

Alan took a long time to answer. He didn't want to hurt his friend, but somewhere in the depths of his heart, there was still an echo of the devastation he had felt at being locked out of Denny's life, at being the target of such anger and venom. Finally, he said quietly, "I only found out the morning of the shooting that Alice was a nun. I didn't… have a chance to… tell you."

Denny absorbed the younger man's demeanor, and understood immediately. "You mean you _couldn't_ come and tell me," he said. "I wasn't going to listen."

Alan shrugged. "I didn't say that."

Denny leaned forward earnestly in his chair. "Alan, I'm sorry about what happened between us. I want you to know that I—"

"You don't have to apologize to me, Denny."

"Yes, I do, Alan. _Yes, I do._ I realized what an _ass_ I was. You're a lawyer. I'm a lawyer! We take cases we don't personally agree with all the time—"

"_You_ don't."

"I'm Denny Crane!"

"Exactly."

"But what I mean, Alan, is that I should have known you wouldn't let it affect your dedication to me, to _us_. I shouldn't have let it get in the way of our friendship. And I'm sorry about that. I truly am."

Alan smiled softly, and managed a sip of scotch. "Thank you, Denny."

Denny gestured loosely toward Alan's glass. "Should you be drinking that stuff? Don't you have medications to take that don't mix with alcohol or something like that?"

Alan let out a short, sharp laugh. "Denny! Since when does that kind of thing concern you? Don't worry. I have no intention of turning into Karen Ann Quinlan. I didn't take any pills tonight."

Denny's worry moved from one problem to another. "But you've got a hole in your chest—doesn't it _hurt_?"

"The _hole_ was quite competently closed up by the doctors at Massachusetts General Hospital, Denny," Alan replied. "As for pain, the scotch and your company are sufficient balm for my wounds right now." He took a long, slow drink from his glass. "I'll save the pills for when you're not beside me."

"You'll be saving them a long time."

"I hope so, Denny."

The two sat in silence for another moment, just savoring their renewed closeness. "It works for me, too, you know," Denny said finally. "The name thing."

Alan laughed softly. "You mean you feel reassured hearing your name, too?" He laughed again and shook his head. "What strength of personality, Denny."

"No, no, that's not what I mean," Denny answered. "I mean _your _name, Alan. When I hear your name, I feel a little less alone—whether you're in the room or not. If someone says your name, I feel stronger, I feel… _supported_."

"I suppose that's what friendship does," Alan agreed.

"Say it, Alan."

"What?" Alan replied, amused. "What, _now_?"

"Now," Denny said, leaning forward, in earnest. "Say it now, Alan. For awhile back there I was afraid I wouldn't get to hear it come out of your own mouth again. Say it. For me."

Alan let a soft smile just touch his eyes. "Okay, Denny. For you." He put his drink down on the table, then maneuvered his cigar so it lay across the top of the glass. He gritted his teeth as he leaned forward with just the slightest difficulty, stopping Denny's immediate attempt at solicitousness by holding up a hand just briefly, and stared into his friend's eyes, trying to convey everything in his heart, which, he knew, he could never manage, not if he had all the time in the world.

"Alan Shore."

Denny returned his stare. Then he said in his best "Denny Crane" voice, "Alan Shore."

Alan smiled.

Denny drew himself up almost haughtily and added, "Denny Crane!"

Alan nodded, then replied softly, "Denny Crane."

"Flamingoes!" Denny reminded him.

Alan smiled, at peace, and warm to his very heart. "Indeed."


End file.
